The Twentieth Century Expereince
by Purple Butter
Summary: The Doctor was supposed to take Clara to Space Paris. Instead, he takes her to a museum in the far future where a sinister professor, ruthless Sontarans and historically inaccurate exhibits run amok. With the help of a family of inept terrorists, will the Doctor be able to stop Clara from becoming a permanent exhibit at the Twentieth Century Experience?


In the vortex that lies beyond time and space tumbled a police box that was not a police box.

The Doctor, dressed in his Victorian waistcoat and his very favourite bowtie, was prancing around the TARDIS's central console as Clara Oswald entered the time machine's main control room.

"How did you find the wardrobe?" the Doctor asked as he flipped a row of bright red switches on his ship's haphazard console.

"I kept walking until I found it," Clara replied as she made her way down the control room's stairs.

"There was this fifty-first century Alpha Centaurian scholar," the Doctor said as he looked at Clara's new blue dress," who came to the conclusion that humans are the most sarcastic species in the universe. Humans like you prove him right, Clara Oswald. Well, I say 'him.' Alpha Centaurians are hermaphrodites you see –"

"Doctor." Clara cut the Time Lord off before he went on another one of his long-winded ramblings.

"Ah. Sorry. I suppose you don't want to hear about Alpha Centaurian mating rituals. Surprisingly good dancers, if I do say so myself."

"The wardrobe was nice," Clara said as she joined the Doctor by the console. "Well, nice until the TARDIS kept rearranging everything just to annoy me. Grumpy old cow."

"Be nice to my humans, dear," the Doctor said to the console as he gave it an affectionate pat.

"We're not going to the Artic or to the ice planet of Hoth or anywhere like that, are we?" Clara gestured to the blue dress she was wearing. "Because I don't think the designer of this dress had sub-zero temperatures in mind."

"No, I've been to Hoth. It's rubbish." As was often the case, Clara couldn't tell if the Doctor was joking or not. "We're going to Space Paris!"

"Space Paris?"

"Like Paris, except in space! Very beautiful, very romantic, very little oxygen."

"Very romantic?" Clara repeated, her left eyebrow slightly raised.

The Doctor cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well, as romantic as an asteroid full of French robots can be. Anyway, lovely ice cream. Very lovely ice cream. Over five million flavours. Just don't try earwax. Stay away from snot too."

His long-winded rambling complete, the Doctor executed a complex (and ridiculous looking) series of commands on the console. The familiar grinding noise of the TARDIS started up as the ship travelled through the space-time vortex before the equally familiar thumping noise told them they had arrived.

The Doctor grabbed his jacket from its resting place on the control room's railings and hastily put it on mid run as he dashed to the TARDIS's doors. Clara followed him, equally as excited but much better at hiding it than the Time Lord.

The two of them stood in front of the police box doors, an entire world waiting for them outside.

"I love this bit," the Doctor said as he excitingly wrung his hands together. "Never gets old."

The Doctor and Clara passed through the blue doors and into the world beyond.

Clara was very disappointed.

Instead of the beauty and romance of Space Paris, there was the dinginess and musty smell of a dark store room.

"This is Vegas all over again," Clara sighed.

"This could still be Space Paris!" the Doctor protested. "This could just be….a rubbish bit."

Clara looked around the grimy room. "A rubbish bit?"

"Yes, I'm sure it looks very nice under the right lighting." The Doctor rummaged in his pocket for his sonic screwdriver. He removed the tool and pointed it at the dim outline of what looked like a light fixture. A few moments later, the room was illuminated.

Clara looked around the newly lit room. It was cramped. White sheets covered objects of varying size. Broken machine parts were strewn around the floor and on a few rickety wooden tables. The musty smell persisted. It reminded Clara of the stench of old buildings like museums or churches.

"It's still rubbish."

The Doctor turned to the blue police box, stood in the corner of the small room. "Thanks a lot, dear. Embarrass me in front of the new girl, why don't you?"

Clara walked over to one of the objects and whisked the white sheet off in what she hoped was a dramatic flourish. Under the sheet was a display case made out of wood and glass. It reminded Clara of the exhibits in a museum her gran had taken her to one bank holiday Monday. There were tiny figurines under the glass. A crowd of tiny people cheered as a figurine in a horse drawn cart was attacked by a giant metal woman.

Clara read the display case's plaque.

**Assassination of John F Kennedy (President of United North American Statues) by Thatcher the Almighty One. 1998. Kennedy was a ruthless tyrant. The American people were very happy when Thatcher the Almighty One devoured him with her mighty metal jaws. From that day onwards, she was known as the Iron Lady. **

"Well, that's not right."

Clara's heart skipped a beat as the Doctor spoke. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"Oh. Sorry. But that's wrong." The Doctor pointed at the miniature JFK's assassination with one of his long fingers.

"Well, of course it is. Isn't it?" With the Doctor you could never be sure.

"Museums," the Doctor scoffed. "Museums are rubbish."

A loud pinging noise behind them caused all three of the hearts between the Doctor and Clara to skip a few beats. They turned around to see a blue, transparent woman staring at them. She was dressed in what looked like an old fashioned Second World War army uniform.

"Scan complete. Greetings, Clara Oswin Oswald and [name unavailable]. Welcome to the Twentieth Century Experience." The transparent woman spoke in a clipped, slightly unnatural way that unnerved Clara.

"Ah," the Doctor said. "A hologram. You've probably already alerted the guards, haven't you?"

"Correct. We at the Twentieth Century Experience apologise for any inconvenience."

A squad of black armoured guards noisily burst through the door of the store room. They wasted no time in pointing their nasty looking weapons at the intruders. The hologram disappeared with another loud ping.

"There are always guards," the Doctor muttered to Clara in a tone that suggested that being threatened by armed guards was an annoying fact of life that one just had to put up with.

The guards were too short and stocky to be human. After Akhaten and Skaldak, Clara was gradually getting used to the idea of aliens.

One of the guards stepped forward. His helmet mechanically retracted to reveal a domed head and brown, clammy skin.

"Sontarans!" the Doctor said with sudden glee.

"Your powers of observation are startling," the alien said.

"Sarcastic Sontaran," the Doctor said. "That's a first."

"I am head of security here. I am General Thrunk of the First Sontaran Razor Legion. Thrunk the Deathbringer."

"Well, I'm the Doctor of the First Intergalactic Tourism Board. Doctor the Inspectionmaker." The Doctor flashed his psychic paper at Thrunk. "There's been a terrible mistake. This will go in the report, you know."

Thrunk looked at the psychic paper. As best as Clara could tell from his alien features, he looked suspicious. "We did not detect any incoming spacecraft, inspector."

"You didn't? Well, your security is even more lax than I thought!"

Thrunk looked ready to knock the Doctor's teeth out.

"Do not insult my security measures again or I shall strangle you will your own entrails." The Sontaran was disturbingly calm.

"Okeydokey." If the Doctor had been shaken by the threat, he didn't let it show.

"Who's the boy?" Thrunk looked at Clara. Clara thought about pointing out the fact that she was quite clearly a girl, but the look of contempt in the alien's eyes convinced her to leave the biology lesson for later.

"Clara is the plucky young lad who helps me out. Work experience and all that. Do Sontarans have work experience? No, I suppose not. Not many career choices for a Sontaran."

Clearly resisting the urge to break both of the Doctor's arms, Thrunk spoke. "Would you like to see Professor Sanders?"

"Oh, yes please," the Doctor said. "Come along, Clara." Clara walked alongside the Doctor, half the Sontarans in front of them, half behind.

The Doctor and Clara were escorted through multiple corridors and rooms on their way to see the professor. This place looked like a typical museum to Clara. The only difference was that the exhibits were inaccurate enough to give any historian worth his salt a heart attack or three. Between the white sheets and the Sontarans, Clara didn't get to see much but highlights included holographic reconstructions of Richard Nixon playing golf on the moon and Queen Elizabeth II celebrating her coronation by sacrificing a virgin to Odin.

"Not very accurate, is it?" Clara whispered to the Doctor. She felt like she was chatting with her friend at the back of the class, the only difference being that the teacher might strangle them with their own entrails.

"Hmmm." The Doctor looked thoughtful. "Records could have been lost, I suppose. I can't tell what time period this is. This place is too retro. I hate retro."

"Odd to see Sontarans working security," the Doctor muttered a few minutes later. "Most of them never leave the Sontaran Empire."

"Maybe they're tourists," Clara said.

The Doctor suppressed a giggle. They really were chatting at the back of the class, Clara thought. "No. No Sontaran tourists. No Sontaran historians, either. Can't think why they're here and not off fighting the Rutan Host."

"I guessing these Sontaran people are soldiers, yeah?"

"They're nothing but. They do nothing except fight. Still, they're not all bad." The Doctor seemed wistful for a second.

They arrived at a door. A holographic message hovered just in front of the door:

**Katherine Sanders. Professor of Ancient History, Robotics and Pottery.**

Thrunk and another Sontaran led the Doctor and Clara inside. It was a comfortable looking office. An attractive grey-haired older woman sat at a metal desk on the other side of the small room. Clara immediately noticed the fierce expression on her face.

"This had better be good, Commander," Professor Sanders said.

"Intruders, ma'am." Thrunk caught himself. "Inspectors, ma'am."

"I'm the Doctor. We're from the First Intergalactic Tourist Board!" the Doctor smiled.

"Never heard of it." The professor seemed more and more irritated with every passing second.

"We're very 'first.' Mind if we have a look around?"

"These are his credentials, ma'am." Thrunk passed Sanders the Doctor's psychic paper.

After a few seconds, Sanders looked up from the psychic paper. "Do you think I'm an idiot, Doctor? This paper is blank."

The Doctor's smile faded. Clara unconsciously moved slightly closer to the Doctor.

"Ah. You must be very clever. Clever old Professor Sanders."

"Psychic paper may work on moronic Sontarans, but not on me. Arrest them."

Clara cried out in pain as the other Sontaran wrenched her arm behind her back. The Doctor fell to his knees as Thrunk punched him in the stomach.

"Would it not be easier to kill them?" Thrunk had clearly enjoyed punching the Doctor and wanted to continue.

"Hmmm. No. Too much paperwork. I'm busy enough as it is. Take them to the holding cell."

"Yes, ma'am," Thrunk said, failing to hide his disappointment.

After another unpleasant walk through the Twentieth Century Experience, the Doctor and Clara were unceremoniously dumped into a small, stark white holding cell. Thrunk gave the Doctor one last look of contempt before the door slammed shut, locking the Doctor and Clara in.

Clara groaned as she sat up; her arm was killing her.

"Are you okay?" the Doctor said gently.

"I'm fine, Doctor. Really I am. The Sontarans haven't made a good first impression on me, though."

The Doctor smiled, gave Clara a hug and turned to look at the rest of the cell. Clara turned with him and saw that there were three other people sharing the tiny cell with them. A man, a woman and a teenage boy; all dressed in bizarre purple uniforms. Part of Clara was embarrassed; these complete strangers had seen the Doctor hug her.

"Hello," the Doctor said cheerfully. "This isn't Space Paris, is it?"

* * *

A/N: I felt like writing some Doctor Who. For anyone who's curious, I picture this taking place between Cold War and Hide. Reviews on what I'm doing right and I'm what I'm doing wrong will be appreciated.


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